A lone eye sunk in the wall of a car park catches my eye. It's purpose is unknown, but it casts a good shadow.
Today outside the Italian Delicatessen on the corner of Chapel Place, we breakfast on coffee and croissants. We could be in France. The croissant is light and you can taste the butter, which has been used to make it, rather than the substitute fats, which nowadays rob most croissants of their character. The croissants are baked by the neighbouring butcher, whose bread and pies are as good as his meat and poultry. We are fortunate to live where we do.
While preparing a meal this afternoon I remember the basil which I should have brought home from the greenhouse this morning. It is a rich pleasure to be able to cross the road to cut a bowlful, and to smell the freshly cut leaves while bringing them home and adding them to beaten egg.
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